The Right Partner
by seimaisin
Summary: If he'd been thinking straight, Fenris would never have agreed to come to this Maker-forsaken party. But he seemed to be particularly bad at thinking these days, especially where Marian Hawke was concerned.


If he'd been thinking straight, Fenris would never have agreed to come to this Maker-forsaken party. But he seemed to be particularly bad at thinking these days, especially where Marian Hawke was concerned.

It wasn't like he really belonged in Hightown, anyway – not outside of his mansion, and even there, he still felt like a trespasser more often than not. And he hadn't been to Hawke's mansion, not since … the last time. Which he tried not to think about. (Except at night, when he closed his eyes, and he could feel her skin sliding against his, her nose nuzzling against his neck, her legs wrapped around his waist.) But this time, his invitation had come not from Hawke, but from her mother. Leandra had shown up at his mansion herself, a fancy-looking scroll in hand. "I'm having a party for the holiday," she said. "Please come." Apparently he was powerless against the eyes of any Hawke woman. So here he was.

He wore a new suit – black, but cut in the style of the Kirkwall nobles – courtesy of Isabela. ("You can't go to a Hightown party in armor," she'd said. When he asked how she knew he was going, she'd just rolled her eyes. "Like you'd stay away. Who else is going to glare at all those simpering noble assholes fawning over Hawke?") The cloth was soft and comfortable, but Fenris slid a finger underneath the collar anyway, relieving an imaginary itch. This felt … wrong. Too much like the parties Danarius used to throw. He felt like he should be keeping his head down, like he should head for the wine cellar and prepare for his duties. He had no business being here – what was he supposed to do? Mingle with the Kirkwall elite? Most of them were already staring at him like he was on display. What would he talk to them about? His experiences in Tevinter? _And then I slipped into the bedroom of a visiting magister and killed the servant warming his bed. Why? Because my master needed to send him a message._ He could only imagine the responses. From what he knew of several of these people, actually, he'd worry about giving them ideas.

When he felt a hand on his shoulder, he jumped and nearly reached for a sword that wasn't there. "Easy," he heard Aveline say. "It's just me."

Fenris turned and gave her a half-smile. "Sorry."

"It's okay." She chuckled. "You look uncomfortable."

"There," Fenris said dryly, "is the understatement of the evening."

"Join the club." Aveline rolled her eyes. She wore a green dress that made her hair look even more red than usual. She looked lovely, and Fenris told her so. She snorted. "Leandra came to the barracks and made me go shopping with her. Probably for the best – her taste in this sort of thing is much better than mine." She eyed Fenris. "I didn't know you owned any formal clothing."

"I didn't. Isabela gave these to me."

"Huh. Far more tasteful than I'd have expected." Aveline turned toward the dance floor, where couples whirled in some kind of pattern that escaped Fenris. To his surprise, one of the couples was Isabela and Anders – both dressed far better than Fenris normally expected of either. Isabela's dress, naturally, was cut as low as decency would allow. "Even that is downright demure for her," Aveline said, grinning. "And I guess she must have provided Anders with clean clothing, if she was playing magical godmother to wayward boys."

Fenris shot her a look, which just made her grin widen. "I'm surprised the mage showed up, paranoid as he is." A scan of the room also brought Merrill to his attention – she was tucked away in a corner, flowers braided into her hair, watching the dance with a small smile. "Either of them."

"Me too, but the power of Leandra compels us all, I suppose."

"The power of some Hawke female," Fenris muttered, which made Aveline laugh out loud. As if thinking of her made her appear – a magic Fenris often wondered if the woman secretly possessed – he suddenly caught sight of Marian skirting the edges of the dance. She wore a dress colored the same blood red as the war paint she liked to wear; it clung to her subtle curves like a second skin, falling to the floor in silken waves.

His mouth went dry. As he watched her greet guests, he barely noticed Aveline stepping back. "You should go greet our hostess," she said, amusement plain in her voice. She patted his shoulder. "Have fun." Before Fenris could recover enough to ask if Leandra wasn't actually the party's hostess, Aveline was gone, lost in the crowd behind him.

He almost decided to follow Aveline. But when he glanced back at Marian (_Hawke_, he reminded himself firmly, easier to keep his mind straight that way) she was looking at him – with what he imagined was the same gobsmacked look he'd worn when he first caught sight of her. He felt himself smile. He knew he shouldn't – she should hate him, he _wanted_ her to hate him, it would be so much easier that way – but his heart warmed at the idea that he could cause that expression. Instinctively, he made a shallow bow in her direction. When he looked up again, she was smiling and walking toward him. She stopped in front of him and seemed to hesitate. After some sort of mental deliberation, she brought one hand up to tug on the ends of her hair. Her eyes shone as they searched his. "You came."

"Your mother insisted."

"I'm starting to wonder if my mother has blackmail material on all my friends. And if she does, why she's not sharing with me."

"I think you know enough about any of us to blackmail us if you really wanted."

"If I really wanted to die horribly, you mean."

"You overestimate most of us. Maybe not Aveline," he admits. "And Isabela, much as she may occasionally pretend to be more harmless than she is."

"You don't think you could take me?"

Fenris blinked. For a moment, he imagined what it would be like to fight Hawke – to have to dodge her daggers instead of take advantage of their speed. After four years, he knew her battle rhythms like he knew his own breathing. He could deliver a finishing blow to an enemy she'd distracted, could knock someone down just in time for her to go in for the kill. It was a deadly sort of dance; not unlike the one happening a ways away from them at that moment, only with real blades, instead of the verbal ones nobles liked to spar with. If that dance ever turned adversarial … something flipped in Fenris's stomach, and he dismissed the thought. "I pray we never have to find out."

Her gaze softened. "Me too." She held out a hand. "Dance with me?"

Fenris froze. He nearly answered that he didn't dance, but … hadn't he just been thinking otherwise? "I don't know any of these dances."

"Me either, not really." She shrugged. "My mother made me learn a couple for the party. This one is a slow one, easy. We can't do that much damage."

Something in her eyes – a vulnerability underneath the blue humor – made him swallow his instinctive rejection. He took her hand, and tried not to shudder at the feel of her skin warm against his. "Lead the way."

The music had slowed to an almost mournful tune, and the dancing couples were moving in a circular pattern that involved a lot of holding onto each other around the waist. The moment he pulled Hawke close, Fenris knew he should have refused the dance. Her body fit against his too well, she was too close, smelled too female – not female like the flighty perfumed birds hovering all around him, but a soft, musky scent that made him think of warm summer days and spiced drinks. He wanted to bury his face in her hair and breathe deeply. Instead, he stiffened and held her an inch or so away from his body. When she looked up at him, he tried to school his face to something close to indifference. He knew he didn't succeed when she bit her lip and her chest rose and fell more rapidly. Not that he was looking at her chest, at the subtle swell of flesh over the edge of her neckline …

Fenris cleared his throat, and was grateful for the change in melody, which allowed him to let go of her and proceed with a part of the dance that only involved holding hands.

Another dancer stepped close enough to Fenris to make him dodge; he ended up brushing against Hawke's skirts. "Nice move," she said, amusement plain in her voice.

"This isn't all that much different than avoiding Carta thugs, really."

"Fewer daggers, though."

"Fewer _visible_ daggers," Fenris corrected.

"True." Hawke smiled at him, bright as the sun, as the dance brought them back together. Fenris gathered her close to his body without thinking. He felt her sigh and melt against him. For just a moment, their faces were a mere inch apart. He could feel her breath warm on his cheek, and his traitorous mind brought up a brief memory of what her mouth tasted like. Just an inch – the smallest movement would capture her lips. With her body this close, her eyes half-closed, it was hard for Fenris to remember why kissing her would be a bad idea.

For a moment – just a moment, no more – he rested his forehead against hers. He felt her quick intake of breath, her muscles tense with anticipation.

Somewhere in the back of his head, laughter echoed. Not hers. Not his own. Another male voice, low and amused. _Danarius._

Fenris pulled back as if he'd been burned. Hawke's eyes widened, but one corner of her mouth quirked upward in a humorless smirk. He knew her face well enough to know the expression was self-directed – it was the expression she used when she knew she'd made some kind of stupid mistake. _It's not you_, he wanted to say. _This isn't your fault. You've done nothing wrong._ No, she'd done everything right where he was concerned. Where this – whatever it was – was concerned. It wasn't her fault that he was hopelessly damaged.

The dance whirled into a spin that separated them entirely. Fenris took the moment to catch his breath before their hands found each other again.

On the next step, Hawke stumbled over her skirt, bumping into the man next to her. It started a chain reaction that ended with half a dozen dancers stumbling and cursing under their breath. The man glared, but Hawke just started giggling. "Excuse me," she said. "So sorry."

Fenris pulled her away. She continued to giggle. "Maybe dancing was a bad idea," she said.

"Perhaps," Fenris said, "we're better suited for the battleground than the dance floor."

"To my mother's everlasting chagrin." She tugged on his hand. "Come on, let's spare everyone our grace and charm."

He automatically laid a hand on the small of her back as they walked to the side of the room. It just felt right – as some of the young noblemen glanced their way, he realized it felt a lot like a mark of possession. _Mine_, he thought, looking at them all. _This woman is mine, go away._ Except, she wasn't. He'd made that choice.

He pulled his hand back. Hawke turned to look at him, but he looked away.

"Serrah Hawke!"

Both Hawke and Fenris turned to see the Viscount approaching. "He came," Hawke murmured. "Mother must be beside herself. Her party is a smashing success."

"It certainly seems that way."

Fenris stepped back behind Hawke as the Viscount stood in front of her. "I already said this to your mother," he said, "but I wanted to catch you as well. This is a lovely party, thank you for the invitation."

Hawke inclined her head. "Thank you for coming, Viscount. I know it means a lot to Mother."

As they exchanged pleasantries, Fenris slowly backed away until the party crowd swallowed him. He resisted looking back as he made his way to the front door. He passed Bodahn on the way. "Leaving so soon?" the dwarf asked pleasantly.

"Yes." He started to walk on, but then turned back. "Please give Hawke my regrets."

"I will, Master Fenris."

_Don't call me Master,_ he wanted to snap, but he knew Bodahn meant well. He didn't deserve that, not at a party.

When Fenris slipped out into the chilly night, he breathed a sigh of relief. And if that relief was mingled with a bit of regret, well, regret was becoming an old friend.


End file.
